Page 110 of For the Plot

“Oh, sweetheart,” he says even more confident this time as he stands, “you have no idea.”

Chapter 26

Reece

I’ve built empires. Negotiated billion-dollar mergers in glass towers overlooking cities most people never step foot in. I know how to plan. How to play the long game. How to make men twice my size flinch with a single look.

But I’ve never done this. I’ve never courted a woman. Never had to.

With Lauren, it just happened. We were young. We grew up together. One minute we were sharing textbooks and milkshakes, and the next, she was pregnant with Archer and we were picking out cribs and fighting about curtain colors.

And after she died… there was nothing. Nothing I wanted. Nothing I let myself want. Until Skye. And now I’m not just trying to win her back. I’m trying tobecomethe kind of man who deserves her.

Which means slowing down. Showing up. Speaking her language, not mine.

I think about the way she looked at me across that table, guarded but open. Brave and still slightly breakable. A woman standing on the edge of forgiveness but refusing to jump without proof.

She said,woo me.So that’s what I’ll do. Not with diamonds or dinners that cost more than rent. With details. With intention. With the things that say,I see you. I know you. I remember every single thing about you.

I sit at my desk that night and open a new file. Not a spreadsheet. Not a proposal. A plan. Her favorite coffee order: iced latte, half oat milk, half almond, light ice, one raw sugar. The way she hums Rihanna when she’s focused.

Skye doesn’t want grand. She wants real. And I’ve got real in spades. It’s the one thing I never let anyone else see. Until her. I close the laptop and lean back in my chair, heart pounding harder than it should.

This isn’t a business strategy. This is a love story. And I’m all fucking in.

I lean back in my chair and close my eyes, letting the city hum fade beneath me. And she’s there.

Not the polite, guarded assistant who walked into my office that first day—but the version of her that lives in my head all the damn time. The one from that night in my home office.

Skye’s in my apartment, barefoot and smiling, one of my T-shirts hanging off her shoulders, the hem barely covering her black lace panties. Her hair is a mess from my hands. Her lips are kiss-swollen from the way I dragged her across my bed less than an hour ago.

I tell myself I’m going to get work done—just an hour at my desk. She tilts her head and smiles, that troublemaker smile that makes my fingers twitch with a desire to reach out and kiss it off of her lips.

“Don’t mind me,” she says, padding into my office like she owns it. “I’ll just keep you company.”

She drops onto the rug in front of my desk, folding her legs beneath her like a damn temptation. Then she pulls papers and sketchboards out of her bag, spreading them across my coffeetable. My T-shirt slips off one shoulder as she leans forward, completely oblivious to the way my focus fractures.

I can’t not watch her.

The scratch of her pencil is the only sound in the room besides the city outside the window. Her tongue peeks out when she’s concentrating, and my chest tightens, because this version of her feels unguarded… vulnerable and I have no fucking right to be witnessing it.

“What’s all this?” I ask finally, my voice lower than I intend.

She glances up, a little sheepish. “Just ideas. I saw this boutique hotel in Aspen online and… I don’t know. I wanted to see if I could still do it. I miss creating.”

I leave my desk and crouch beside her, picking up one of the mock-ups. Black-and-white photography. A streak of warm gold pulling the eye. The tagline in clean, confident letters: Breathe. Stay. Belong.

I trace the edge of the page with my thumb. “You should be doing this. Not running my calendar. This—” I gesture to the work she’s scattered around herself—“this is what you’re meant for.”

Her eyes find mine, wide and vulnerable. A flush creeps up her neck.

“You really think so?”

“I know so.” I tuck a strand of hair behind her ear, my fingers trailing down her throat. She exhales like she’s been holding her breath.

Then she leans in, kissing me softly, like she believes me.

Her laugh is still in my chest as I pin her to the rug, her mock-ups fanning out around us like a halo.